With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo

 

Duende

Pretty Leslie and I spend our last night with Mariana. She’s made a big traditional meal for us and even poured us a glass of sangria. I swear to God Pretty Leslie turned Hulk-smash green at the smell of the wine and I couldn’t stop the laugh that broke through my lips. She doesn’t touch her glass at all.

For once, I try not to analyze the dish in front of me and just eat to enjoy. Mariana has an old-school boom box in her dining room and Spanish songs play on a loop. I recognize some from when ’Buela has her radio on in the kitchen and others I don’t know but wish I did. One song comes on and the first couple of words make me lower my fork. Mariana must notice because she gets up and turns the volume higher. Even Pretty Leslie must realize this is a beautiful song because she closes her eyes and listens.

The singer has a deep voice and the end of each note is punctuated with a clap.

“Do you recognize?” Mariana asks me. I shake my head. This is not a voice I know.

“Mercedes Sosa. Folk singer from Argentina but well-loved here.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to miss another word. She sings about how everything changes, the shallow and the profound, the shiny and the old; everything but the love for home changes. I’m tapping my foot to the rhythm, and when the song ends Mariana gets up and plays the song again.

“Mercedes Sosa was full of duende. Of inspiration and passion.”

I savor this new word as if it were the last bite on my plate, and I know now I’m ready to go back home.